


Ain't That a Kick in the Head

by go_south



Series: The Mojave Revenant [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Coma, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Poor courier, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 04:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6785926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/go_south/pseuds/go_south
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mojave's revenant is born from the sands stained in his own blood</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't That a Kick in the Head

**Author's Note:**

> hopefully this is the beginning of a series collection about silas the courier and his quest for revenge   
> things aren't gonna go well for him folks! but we love him all the same

When the courier’s world came into being, it wasn’t born from a brilliant flash of white light–what came was pain. Suffocating, gut wrenching pain that made his vision swim. His nostrils flared and he sucked in air before expelling it out violently in a fit of coughing.

“Breathe, son,” Came a rough but gentle voice, “In n’ out, just like that.”

Eventually, the courier’s breathing slowed and his vision went from a stark white to a blurred mess of colors. The panic, however, did not falter. His heart was beating hard against his ribs and his brain was firing off signals left and right. Run. Scream. Fight. Fear. Run. Run. Run.

His body didn’t follow in suit. Instead, he just scrambled in fear from the shifting mass resting close to the bed he was laying on.

“Careful, I ain’t gonna hurt you, son.”

Once the figure proved itself to be no threat to the courier, he managed to calm down a little bit–propped up against the wall with the sweat drenched blankets abandoned on the end of the bed while he curled in on himself, grunting and whimpering from the pain that was blossoming all over his body, especially in his head.

Little things started coming back to him except for words, his vision and..something else he couldn’t quite pin down. The figure, which he soon came to realize was an old man, delivered him a tray of soft food which he ate slowly even though starvation clung to the walls of his belly since chewing hurt his head and the man told him not to eat too quick or his stomach would burst.

The courier was too weak to walk and most words seemed to go through one ear and out the other. One time, a barrage of tiny voices came into the room, peering at his face and touching his mohawk before they were quickly ushered out by the man.

After three days of his dreamlike stupor, the courier began to finally become lucid.

It was around sunset and the doctor had just come into the room to check on him, handing him a bow of brahmin chunks soup and sitting down to routinely check his vitals.

When the courier spoke, his voice sounded like he’d been eating piles of cracked earth for his whole life.

“Where am I?” He croaked, chewing carefully on the bits of brahmin meat.

The doctor’s eyes crinkled in a smile as he breathed out a sigh of relief, “I was worried you’d never speak again, son. You’re in Goodsprings, the coziest little town in all of the Mojave.”

The courier’s face scrunched in deep thought. Most of that sounded familiar.

“Who’re you?”

“I’m Doctor Mitchell, the doctor in this here town, but most people just call me Doc.”

The courier paused for a moment, the bowl trembling slightly in his hands.

“And who am I?”

A stillness took over the room and the doctor let out a sigh, “Was ‘fraid that ol’ bullet in your noggin knocked something wrong in there.”

At the word “bullet”, all the past events came crashing in to his mind. Being beaten. The man in the checkered suit. The goons. The casino chip. But that’s all he could remember.

More pain radiated across his head and he sucked in a shaky breath, rubbing his hand across the bandage on his head.

Doc Mitchell continued to speak, shining a small hand light light into the courier’s eye, “Victor found you half buried at the cemetery, dug you up n’ brought you here. Looked like half your head caved in and you were covered in blood. Whoever did that to you beat you up pretty badly beforehand. You were in a coma for about two weeks.”

The young man dragged the heel of his palms up and down his face. Despite being bedridden for almost fourteen days, exhaustion still clung to him, but he had the sudden urge to stand and feel the ground underneath his feet. When he made the move to stand, the doctor grabbed his arm and helped him off the bed. “If you wanna protect yourself from another head wound, you’d best be careful when standing–your legs are weak.”

They moved painfully slowly into the next room and the courier wanted to scream. Everything was happening but at the same time, nothing was happening at all. He couldn’t remember what he was called or where he was from or even why he got involved with the man in the checkered suit in the first place. Nothing was making any sense to him. It felt as if he was forgetting something so vitally important and for the life of him, he just couldn’t remember. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry and throw himself onto the floor, but most of all, he just didn’t know what to do. Panic started bubbling up in his chest once more–who was he? Who the fuck was he?

Once the doctor sat him down on the tattered couch, the courier found it hard to speak. His hands had started shaking again and his throat kept closing up whenever he tried to speak. Thankfully, Doc Mitchell saw his distress and spoke calmly, “It’s alright kid...I’ve seen people recover from amnesia. It just takes time.”

That seemed to ease the courier’s fears for the time being, who looked as if he was about to lose it any second.

“What do you remember exactly?” The good doctor asked, “Anything you could help.”

Taking a shaky breath, the courier rubbed his hands together uneasily, “W-well I remember uhm..darkness..having a bag ripped off my head and being beaten by two guys, one had a mohawk and other had a beard or something and then...some guy wearing a checkered suit saying something how I made my last delivery and sorry that I got all tangled up in this then...then a white flash. That’s all I remember.”

The old doc’s thick eyebrows furrowed and he scratched his chin, “Well..that’s certainly a conundrum. That’s all?”

The courier nodded.

“Well,” Doc Mitchell stood up, eyes falling on the incoming darkness outside, “We should probably put you back to bed, can’t imagine how tired you must–. oh! That reminds me.” He made a noise and left the room, coming back shortly with a small pristine mirror in his hands. “I had to patch you up a bit, shift some things around with that destroyed skull of yours so I hope you’re happy with your face. Didn’t change anything around too much.”

When the courier’s eyes fell upon the mirror; however, they didn’t go straight for the red swollen and dented wound on his head but instead went to the deep jagged scars on his mouth. Four of them crisscrossed his lips, leaving long angry poorly healed x’s that were deep in his skin. He could even see some of his teeth poking through where the skin was cut deeper than other areas, Other old scratches and faded scars speckled his face up near his eyes. An intense feeling of nausea bloomed in his stomach and he shoved the mirror away, clapping a hand over his mouth–images of gold and red flashed in his mind, only striking more fear into his heart.

Taken aback, the doctor gave the courier some space and scratched the back of his head before muttering something and leaving the room for a moment while the courier tried desperately to keep himself together. Where did these scars come from and why did he get so scared of them? Anxiety and panic pooled in his stomach and he desperately tried to squash it, his breathing turned hard and fast. His stomach felt hollow and his skin prickled. The world around him seemed to blur. He had so many questions with no answers. He was supposed to know these things wasn’t he? Someone gave him these scars, but who fucking did? Who?!

By the time the doctor came back, the courier managed to calm himself down a little bit and he spotted a little cloth bundle in the doctor’s hand. “Here,” Doc Mitchell said, handing it to the courier, “It’s a face wrap you were wearing when Victor brought you in and there’s something written on the inside.”

Immediately, the courier stuffed the bundle into his face as if it would grant his memories back, this one object that belonged to him for a long time it seemed. He opened it up and found a little worn white tag on the inside with the letters “SILAS” scrawled in black. The courier blinked, looked at the doctor then back at the letters. “Silas..” He murmured quietly to himself, “That’s my name. I’m Silas...the courier.”


End file.
